What now?
by prettybirdy979
Summary: John, Sherlock and Mycroft kick butt...


'Oh, what now?'

'What?' John looked around confused. 'I didn't say anything.' He and Sherlock are having a cup of tea at a local café, after a long week of cases. He had even convinced Sherlock to have a slice of cake…well a bite of John's cake which was a victory in John's eyes.

'Not you, Mycroft.' John turned in his seat and sure enough, there was Mycroft walking towards them, swinging his umbrella as he walked.

'Sherlock.'

'Mycroft. What is it now? A case… no you would have sent a car to pick us up or gone to Baker St to wait. A favour… no you only want my help on cases… Checking up on me? Maybe, but you normally use less obvious means for that. What are you doing here?'

'Can't a brother come see his younger brother?'

'Of course. You came here to eat, not realising we were here.' Sherlock smirked. 'Diet not going well?'

Mycroft was about to answer when both brothers stiffened. John followed their line of sight to see the three men, slight obvious dressed all in black, making their way towards them. It took a second, but John placed one of the men as a member of the gang Sherlock had just brought down.

'How many, Sherlock?' John asked

'A dozen. There's two following behind those three, and another seven on the other side of the road.'

'And the three in the oncoming car.' Mycroft added. Sherlock glared at his brother for a moment.

'Can we out run them?'

'I doubt it.'

'Then let's go.'

Sherlock gave John a confused look. 'Go where?'

'Somewhere with less civilians.'

Nodding, Sherlock stood up, walking swiftly towards the end of the street. He made a sudden turn down an alleyway, Mycroft and John following.

'How long…?'

'If they continue at their current speed, 43 seconds.'

John shifted so he was standing slightly in front of Mycroft, knowing that while Sherlock's fighting style left a lot to be desired, he could at least face multiple opponents without serious injuries. Mycroft, on the other hand, was an unknown element and to be honest, John doubted he even knew how to fight.

_I wish I had brought my gun…_ John could see it clearly, sitting locked in the safe where he had left it before coming out, believing he wouldn't need it. _Not that it's going to help against this many… but if they're armed we are so screwed._

Then the 43 seconds were up, and John didn't have time to think.

The gang members turned the corner, saw the three men and charged. The first man tackled John, driving him to the ground, while the second threw a punch at Sherlock, who dodged it with ease. Sherlock then wacked the man over the head with a piece of discarded wood he had found.

John had managed to flip the man atop him, so he was underneath John. John then knocked him out with the wood thrown at him by Sherlock. Jumping up, he began checking around for Mycroft. He wasn't able to see him immediately, having to first duck a poorly thrown punch. He disabled the attacker by kicking him in the groin and sidestepped a similar attack from another.

He finally spotted Mycroft standing a few feet away, facing off with two opponents, his umbrella on the ground beside him. One threw a punch which Mycroft grabbed and used the momentum of the man to throw him into his fellow. He bent down to pick up his umbrella and in one swift movement turned and brained the man behind him with the umbrella. The man collapsed, his eyes rolling backwards.

Mycroft caught John's eye and smiled. Amazed, John threw his attention back into the fight, confident Mycroft could care for himself. Just then, one man grabbed him in a headlock from behind. He struggled for a moment, before throwing his head back into the other man's head. He dropped like a stone, allowing John the chance to get his breath back.

Quickly, he counted the number of groaning attackers and came up with twelve. _Where's the other three…_ Looking up he saw Sherlock and Mycroft fighting together against two of the missing men. Sherlock was darting and ducking out of reach while Mycroft used his umbrella like a sword, hitting the men whenever and wherever he could reach.

The third man's location became obvious to John when the punch landed on his face. He rolled with it, putting the momentum into a kick, which his opponent dodged. John followed it up with a left-hook, which landed. His opponent retaliated with another punch which John barely ducked. The following leg sweep took him by surprise, sending him to the ground. His opponent stood over him, while he wheezed on the ground, winded. Before he could attack John, his eyes suddenly widened, and he dropped to his knees, groaning.

Mycroft stood behind him, having just used his umbrella to hit the man's groin. Smirking, he offered the umbrella to John who used it to stand up.

'Am I to assume these friends of yours are from your recent case?'

Sherlock grimaced. He had a split lip, a rapidly darking black eye and a cut on his arm, obviously from a knife. Sighing, John moved over to examine for more wounds, conscious of his own injuries.

Running his hands over Sherlock's, he felt Sherlock's flinch as he touched the knuckles. 'Hmm… Bruised, not broken. Come on you two.' Without another word John turned on his heel and headed in towards Baker St.

To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock began to meekly follow. Spotting his confusion, Sherlock said, 'John is a polite, easy-going man… unless there's injuries involved.' He shivered slightly and Mycroft knew he was speaking from personal experience.

Sherlock answered his unasked question, pouting slightly. 'He threw out all my experiments when I didn't listen. Then confined me to his bed for a week. I was so bored!'

Unsure of what John would do to him, but unwilling to tempt fate, Mycroft followed the flatmates to Baker St.

Once there, John disappeared upstairs. The brothers had barely enough time to sit down before he was back, first aid kit in hand.

'You first Sherlock.' Sherlock held his hand out, a bored expression on his face. John quickly washed the blood off the cut then just as fast, bandaged it.

Turning to Mycroft, he ran a disbelieving eye over his apparent lack of injuries. Then he smiled, and grabbed his right arm. Mycroft was unable to stop the hiss that escaped his lips. John seemed to pull a knife from nowhere and cut the long sleeve off.

'How on earth did you manage to get a cut under your jacket?'

Mycroft just shared a knowing smile with Sherlock.


End file.
